Dust
by Jonas Grant
Summary: You cannot find worst cliché than a man that wakes up without memories after being attacked and shot in the head, but the guy in those cliché rarely is hunted down by everyone with some form of intelligence network... Well, maybe he is. Just read it...


**A/N : I am writing this story as a mean of exercising for Orca, as the next chapters will require much shadowy tricks and such. **

The fan is spinning slowly, leaving a blurry trail in its wake. Dust hangs in the air, perfectly still despite the spinning fan, as if time had been stopped all over the room, except for the fan.

"Well," A soft voice speaks, "You're awake, how 'bout that?"

I need to leave! It's important, although I'm still too confused to remember why. I sit up and…

"Wow, easy there, easy!" The man holds me on the dirty bed, his hands on my shoulders. I know exactly what to do; slip my arms between his, part them, getting his fingers off me, get up –he is sitting close enough for my knee to break his skull- then grab a scalpel on the surgical tray nearby… "You've been out cold almost a week now…" He continues, putting an end to my escape plan.

The man is no enemy. "Why don't you relax a second? Get your bearings. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"

It's an easy question, my name…

What is it? You know when you have a word on the tip of your tongue? Well, it's not how I feel at all; there's only a blank. Not just my name, everything, it's all gone, like my brain was a blank slate.

Well, maybe not blank, since I understand what the man says and can obviously remember there was something there before. Many things.

"I can't remember." I admit, after a few seconds.

The man shrugs and smiles, his stubbles and large mustache, combined with his jeans and dirty black shirt, makes him look like a cowboy.

Great, I know what I cowboy is, but can't remember my own name!

"Well, don't strain yourself," The doc explains, "You're lucky to be alive… In fact, you's the second case of bullet in the head I've seen this month." He adds, as an afterthought, stroking his mustache in deep thought, "Reckon I should add brain surgeon to my resume."

"Bullets in the head?" I ask, instinctively bringing a hand to the back of my skull.

My hairs are short, not longer than three centimeters. A bit of prodding around and I find a sore spot, hidden under a stand of hairs and covered with zigzagging rough lines that feel like guitar ropes.

"One .22 round to the back of the skull," The doc explains, his face expressing pain for my situation, "nice and clean. I don't know what you had with you back then, but when they brought you in, you were half naked and didn't have a single cap on you."

Robbery? Great, seems they took more than just my caps from me.

Caps are currency, I know that, I grew up being told it's the most important thing in the world.

I look at the doc. He knows I don't have money, so why did he save me? "I'm sorry, I can't pay you for…"

"Don't mention it," He shrugs it off before looking thoughtful once again, "although, from the looks of you, you're not exactly the beggar type, so if you was to find out you're the son of some Brahmin baron or something, I wouldn't mind some expression of gratitude, gotta eat, you understand…"

I nod. Of course, the guy patched up my brain, it's worth something!

"How long before I begin to remember?" That question seems extremely important, yet totally futile, for some reason, I guess I already know the answer:

"Couldn't tell you, really, maybe a day, maybe never, no one knows for sure…" He seems sorry, but I understand; the world is not what it used to be, whatever that means, and although that doctor could most likely have done more, what he already did was out of kindness of his heart and I should be grateful for what I do have.

"Mind if I get going now?" I ask the doc, awkwardly. I don't want to abuse the man's kindness, but am face with one problem:

No clothes, no memories, no money, no identity and no way to earn any of the above.

Plus, I still don't know if I can so much as walk.

"Let's go one step at a time, see if we can get you on your feet…"

I stand, slowly, tentatively. My legs are weak, my vision is tunneling and balance really is a complicated thing when the floor feels like it's made of jelly…

I fall and the doc catches me, lowering my apparently somewhat heavy ass to the bed.

A second latter, the room is no longer confined to a narrow spot and I give it another try: Still shaky, but I keep up this time.

"Why don't you walk down to the end of the room, over by that vigor tester machine there?" The doc offers, softly, in a monotone voice.

"Feels like you're reciting a speech." I point out, putting one foot before the other.

Halfway there. "That's 'cause I am. Your condition could get worst if you are submitted to any form of stress until you've recovered, so I'm using the same tricks with you as I did with the lady…"

The lady… Someone else who got shot in the head and made it out. I'll have to buy her a drink if we ever meet.

And I have money to buy drinks.

A few more steps and I reach the machine, a big box of wood and metal with a handle sticking out the front. I squeeze the handle like it says in the instruction:

**S:5**

**P:7  
>E:5<br>C:8  
>I:8<br>A: 7  
>L:5<strong>

"Huh, seems you had some intensive training, maybe that tells us some about you…" The doc muses while I try to make sense of these results.

I'm not especially strong, nor tough or lucky, but I am well above average when it comes to being observant and fast while intelligence and charisma are simply remarkable…

Maybe I'm a politician or a diplomat…

"Where does one get that kind of training?" I ask the doc, hoping to get some answers.

"Well, I'd say from NCR or Legion, but it could be many other peoples, or maybe you're just gifted."

NCR, Legion. Guess I'll have to go see both groups, find out if they know me.

Next, the doc makes me sit on his sofa and tries to psychoanalyze me. Turns out I'm a predatory, calculating, paranoid and military minded person, or so his reference chart says.

Since he only ever had one other patient, he cannot say for sure.

"Listen," He then says, putting the psychoanalysis aside for now, "your brain's not functioning like it should an' I don't know the first thing about how it should function, but obviously, your talents and your skills were not erased, just your memories of them…"

Yeah, it's like having a gun, but no trigger finger. "What kind of skills can a guy like me have?"

"I dunno and you ain't going to find out by staying here." He gets up and I follow him to a nearby room. The doc pulls a footlocker from under the bad and push it my way.

"Not much more I can do, but help yourself to whatever's inside; we lifted these off a gang of powder gangers that tried to cause trouble…"

Inside the locker, I pick up a bleached white shirt with blue workpants and cheap sunglasses. There's also a black cowboy hat, but I don't think I need it, so I toss it aside and spot a brown messenger bag.

I empty the thing, discarded paper and tin cans falling in the locker, then stuff two spare pants and four shirts, all the same color as the ones I slung on my shoulder. Somehow, I know how to fold each piece of clothing so that they take half the space they normally would, making the bag look much less crammed than it actually is.

No weapon in the box. For some reason, this is one of my main concerns; finding a weapon. It's like being armed is such an important part of me, I feel uncomfortable when barehanded.

Getting dressed doesn't take very long, the clothes are simple.

Then, the doc shows me the door, reminding me not to turn my back to people with silenced weapons in the future.


End file.
